


with tomorrow in one hand (and a fist in the other)

by buckydarling



Category: Wonder Woman (2017)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Canonical Character Death, Character Study, F/M, Fix-It of Sorts, lots of introspection, please let them be happy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-12
Updated: 2017-07-12
Packaged: 2018-12-01 07:41:30
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11481756
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/buckydarling/pseuds/buckydarling
Summary: It’s been ninety-eight years, and every time you see an aviator jacket with a fur collar on the street or a mop of gold hair in a crowd, your heart still skips a few beats.(You have stopped getting your hopes up; their eyes are never as blue as his.)or: Steve dies, and Diana lives, but it doesn't really feel like living.





	with tomorrow in one hand (and a fist in the other)

**Author's Note:**

> I started this fic in tears when I saw Wonder Woman for the first time, and here I am, after seeing it once more and almost a month of crying and procrastination. 
> 
> A disclaimer: I am terrible at researching for my writing, and I know jack shit about the DCEU or DC Comics beyond this movie, the one time I saw BvS, and my brother's obsession with the Flash and Batman. So I made WILD assumptions about:  
> -the Justice League  
> -How the end of wars work  
> -characterization of Cyborg, Aquaman, and The Flash and Diana's relationships with them  
> -how long the smell lingers in things like sweaters  
> -any other inaccuracies that appear
> 
> I am trying my best!! Please be kind!!
> 
> Title and inserted poems taken from Milk and Honey, the poem anthology by Rupi Kaur. It's fabulous and she's fabulous. I recommend you pick up a copy for yourself and at least ten more to give as gifts.
> 
> Enjoy!

 

 

 

 

 

 

_what is stronger_

_than the human heart_

_which shatters over and over_

_and still lives._

_-rupi kaur_

 

 

 

 

_loving you was breathing_

_but the breath disappearing_

_before it filled my lungs._

"when it goes too soon" -  _rupi kaur_

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

i.

He reaches you almost right as you hit the ground, his blue eyes striking like the sea in the dim black of night, of war, of destruction. Your boots dig into the rubble, the tarmac cracking under your feet, your destructive capability. You are a weapon, a god killer, but Steve Trevor still cradles your face like you are the most beautiful thing he has ever seen. Like you couldn’t break him if you weren’t careful. Your ears are ringing.

His body is poised to run; he is not going to stay with you. He can’t. He is saying words to you, golden hair flopping in front of his soot-smeared face, eyes filled with concern and awe and a deep sadness that scares you so much you find it hard to breathe. _ He’s about to do something good, something terrible, something that won’t end well.  _  “Let me do it, I can do it,” you say to him, earnestly, terrified, knowing your voice is jarringly louder when you can’t hear it. Steve just shakes his head. Runs a thumb down the line of your jaw. Takes your hands and folds them in his own, as if he’s trying to memorize the nuances, the lines and curves of your palms. You know his voice, but cannot hear it.

“I wish we had more time,” you read on his lips, and you shake your head, clutch a hand to his wrist. 

“What are you saying?” you ask him, and his eyes fill with love, cradling your face once more before saying something else, planting his father’s watch in your hands with terrifying finality, running towards the airplane and leaving you alone to face them. The planes and the poison, men and beasts, gods and monsters. The war to end all wars. You cannot read his lips right away; you feel a sinking in your gut and know you are missing something important.

You call his name as he runs; he falters, but does not turn back. You know he cannot.

(You are glad he didn’t; you wish he had; you know he couldn’t have, as much as he wanted to; you wish, you know, you wonder.)

The plane lights up the sky; a golden explosion, golden hair under your fingers, a golden lasso wound around his wrist and truths deeper than you at the time could possibly comprehend. You break the steel binding your body, knowing then that what Steve told you was “I love you” -

 

       --the fact that you did not say it back is a blow deeper than any Ares can deliver to you on the runway.

 

 

 

 

 

ii.

Afterwards, they gather and celebrate. His people, and now, it seems, yours.  _ Humanity.  _ A species, a community, a quality so basic and yet so tested in your eyes. You have grown, and matured; you have seen the darkness of man, and now you see the light. See both, as he did, as he understood so much better than you.  _ It’s not about what they deserve, it’s about what you believe,  _ you hear him saying to you; desperate, frustrated, sad, a hero with his forehead pressed briefly to yours. The ache in your chest that had dulled returns, and does not go away.

You are handed a flag by a small girl, her face glowing. You study it, and then her face, her eyes sparkling and young and happy, and you smile.

You tuck the flag in your pocket, to keep it safe. 

Chief and Sameer and Charlie and Etta flank you, two to each side, almost unconsciously as you make your way to the statue in the center of the square. Planes fly overhead, but not to bring death, to drop bombs, but to celebrate.  A respite from the madness. The goodness of the human heart emerges; the drone of the planes and the laughter of the people; a unified cry of relief, of  _ we are all here and alive.  _

You look at the two to your left, and the two to your right, and how you form a perfect pyramidal formation of five, and think that still, still, something is missing.  _ Someone.  _ The lasso is at home, so you allow yourself to deny the truth.  _ A desperate hand yanking the golden length of rope. Watching it glow as it wraps around his wrist. The bluest eyes you’ve ever seen and the stunning reassurance of brutal honesty. ‘I am taking you to the front.’  _

Your eyes are stinging already, and you blink it away. When in a hundred years, a thousand, had an Amazon cried over a mortal man?  _ They do not deserve you,  _ your mother says to you, caressing your face, and your resolve hardens.  _ My skin has turned to porcelain, to ivory, to steel. I am Diana of Themyscira, daughter of Zeus - _

You reach the statue in the middle of the square and find the photograph with your eyes, and every wall you have built up crumbles and crashes to the ground.

Etta pinned it in a good place; not too high for you to reach, and not so low to need to bend over. It’s him, before the war, leaning against a shining new American airplane. His hair is combed, but a little ruffled, beneath the hat issued with his military uniform. his arms are crossed loosely in front of his chest, leaning against the tail of the plane with his familiar air of easy reassurance. He is young; he is happy; he is  _ innocent,  _ long before the horrors of mankind’s great war carved lines into his face and sadness into the pupils of his eyes and placed great weights on his shoulders. You swear you can see his eyes shining blue even in the black and white photograph. You brush his chin with one finger, as he did with you, and then it is too much. You turn away. The others let you.

You move away, and stand in the center of the square, surrounded by these people -- Steve’s people, in all their clumsy human joy and fallibility -- and you gaze up at the sky he flew in and swear to him,  _ I will protect them for you. I will make them mine.  _

 

 

 

 

 

iii.

And you do just that.

You do just that; you protect them again and again, donning the armor of an island you sometimes think you’ve forgotten, and time goes on.

He never leaves you. Sometimes, you wish you could let him go.

(You never want to let him go.)

 

 

 

 

 

iv.

He never leaves you, even as the decades pass and more and more traces of the time he belonged to are lost to the eternal clutches of the past. 

Slowly, they all are lost; Sameer to old age, Charlie to illness, Chief to the second world war. You have time to say goodbye to each of them, to thank them. It is never enough.

(It is more than you got with Steve, and it hurts.)

Etta is the last to go. The last piece of him that you truly have left. She is old, her hair shocking white and her spirits sharp until the end. You sit beside her bed, cradling one of her frail hands in both of your own, and she reaches out with the other to cradle your cheek, smooth and untouched by the ravages of time and age. (A blessing, a curse.) 

Etta smiles, the crow’s feet at the corners of her eyes deepening, a mark of joy. A sign of a life well lived.

“You’ve come so far, darling,” she says to you, “look at you! A real city girl, living in Paris.” She eyes your tasteful outfit - you’ve come straight from the museum, taken a train from Paris to London. You smile.

“I would be nowhere without you,” you tell her, and she makes a  _ tsk  _ noise with her small mouth, eyes shining.

“I remember that day in the shop,” she admonishes you. “The only reason you needed me was to learn how to fit in.” Etta squeezes your hand. “You were never meant to fit in,” she tells you, softer. “You’re a guiding light, darling.” You smile, sigh, remember a night very long ago.

“My mother told me,” you say, not meeting Etta’s eyes, “that this world did not deserve me. The world of men.” You shake your head. “Sometimes I don’t know if what I’m doing is worth it, even if it is right.”

Etta squeezes your hand and gazes out the window, overlooking the London park next to her home. “We may not always deserve the help we’re given,” she muses, “but sometimes we do. And sometimes we just need someone to remind us of what really matters.” She meets your eyes. “You don’t owe this world anything, Diana,” Etta whispers, “but I know you see the good that’s hidden inside all the bad.” She hums. “Steve saw it too, more than anyone else. And he saw it in you.”

You squeeze your eyes shut. It is too much.  _ I cannot lose you too, I have already lost him, please don’t leave me.  _ Etta clucks, reaching out with her hand again and tucking a strand of hair behind your ear.

“It’d have taken a blind fool,” she says to you, softly, “to not see how much he truly loved you.”

Your heart clenches, and you lean into her touch, warm and reassuring. You feel old already, and tired, but suddenly you feel as you did as a child, so young, so alone, so  _ scared. _ She was one of the first to welcome you into this new world, this place that had been so foreign to your younger, naive self. You nod.

“I loved him too,” you whisper, and she sighs happily. You squeeze her hand.

“He’s waiting for you, darling,” Etta tells you, and the tears sting the corners of your eyes, the knowledge that you are cursed to remain while they all move on, but Etta’s words still calm you.  _ Steve is waiting for you.  _ You lean closer.

“Give him this from me, then,” you tell her, and press a kiss to her forehead, softly.

After she dies, you don’t leave your home for upwards of a week. No one wonders where you are.

You are not surprised, just saddened, and alone.

 

 

 

 

 

v.

You see him everywhere, even after they are all gone.

He is in small things: the buzz and drone of airplanes in the sky. The tinkling of old piano keys, wafting out into the street from the inside of a bar. You buy yourself sweet vanilla ice cream on the warm days of summer and hear the frantic bustle of the train station, feel the foreign constraint of the skirt, taste the soft press of his mouth even all these years later. (You spot a shock of golden hair behind the register once, and you almost drop your cone.)

He permeates everything. Whenever you say your name (“Nice to meet you, sir, my name is Diana Prince--”) you think of him, and how he gave you a name for this world, and for a moment he is standing beside you in London, still somewhat a stranger but somehow so familiar, and just for a few seconds nothing hurts. You wear his father’s watch around your wrist, though it no longer ticks. People point it out when they ask you for the time; you simply shrug, and say, a little melancholy, “I know.”

They send you a box of his things; the army, after the war and the unpacking and the counting is all done. Scents fill the living room of a still-unfamiliar apartment when you break the tape and yank open the box, and you are surrounded by the smells of fresh-turned earth and sweet liquor, gunpowder and airplane tarmac and aftershave. On the top are little knick-knacks - a medal of valour awarded posthumously. Framed photos of him with his mother, his sisters, Etta, Sameer and Charlie and Chief. His wings, burnished brass and the pin a little bent. You study each of these things and learn a little more about the man you loved, but it’s what lies folded neatly at the bottom of the cardboard box that knocks the wind out of you. 

It’s a cream-colored cable knit turtleneck sweater, a little grimy, a little worn, but it’s  _ his,  _ and you breathe in the scent and see in your mind --

_ Veld covered in fairy lights. Charlie singing on the piano, Sameer and Chief beside him. Golden liquor in mismatched glasses and a fountain shut down for the winter. Your first dance, and your first snowfall, and his lips on yours, so careful, so reverent. Your fingers latched gently in the soft collar of the sweater. An ache in your chest, because you cannot remember the last time you felt this cherished. _

You curl around the fabric and cry for hours, and wear it until the scent of him is gone, and then continue to wear it anyway. It’s a little big and there’s a frayed tear on the cuff of one sleeve, but if anyone notices, they know better than to say anything to your face.

It’s been ninety-eight years, and every time you see an aviator jacket with a fur collar on the street or a mop of gold hair in a crowd, your heart still skips a few beats.

(You have stopped getting your hopes up; their eyes are never as blue as his.)

 

 

 

 

 

vi.

When you meet Bruce Wayne for the first time, you are struck by the sense of a kindred spirit; you look into the eyes of a mortal man who somehow still looks as if he has been alive for far too long and seen far too much. You know who he is, of course; you can figure that out for yourself easily enough. But it has been years, easily, since you pulled out your armor and your weapons of choice (and longer, you muse, since you have been a weapon yourself), and you wish to do no battle with Gotham’s bat; and so you dance easily around the millionaire, leaving him with nothing more than a cordial goodbye and a smile that implies you know more than you let on. (You wonder, later, if you should have just said goodbye and left it at that.)

The day he emails you, it is dark outside after a day full of rain, and you are unprepared for the way your breath hitches when the photo appears on your screen. 

It is all there, in grainy black and white and gray (though you can see it clear as color in your mind); Sameer with his upturned chin and mustache, Charlie standing cocky and assured with his rifle in his hands, Chief taller than the rest with shoulders broad and set back with ease. There you are in the middle, young and determined, the fire still in your eyes and glinting on your armor. And there next to you --

\--Steve. Oh, how it breaks your heart. His face different from the photo on the statue, the photos Etta showed you; this is the Steve  _ you knew _ . His bangs flopping over his face, standing next to you in the same sweater that hands in your closet now. His eyes seem to connect with yours through the photograph, always calm and reassuring, never doubting you as so many others did. You shed a few tears, because it almost feels as if he’s still standing beside you, a warm and solid presence, unfailingly  _ there.  _

You suddenly recall a quote, from a film you watched not long ago.  _ Love is the one thing we're capable of perceiving that transcends dimensions of time and space.  _ You close the email, watch the photograph disappear, then gaze out the window of your apartment to the glittering stars you only just now seem to notice, dotting the sky.

_ He’s waiting for you, darling,  _ Etta had said to you, and for the first time, you truly believe her.

 

 

 

 

 

vii.

You dream of Steve, flying an airplane full of gas. He looks back at a distant tarmac lit with flames, and steadies aa gun towards the deadly cargo. You scream for him to stop. He cannot hear you.

He pulls the trigger, and smiles. You don’t understand why.

 

 

 

 

 

viii.

You end up battling the monster despite saying over and over that you won’t, telling yourself it’s only because men can’t be trusted to not make a goddamn mess of everything.You accept once again the rush of adrenaline being back in battle gives you, and for the first time in decades you feel as if maybe you are back where you belong. That this is who you are.

(Something is still missing, and you don’t even need three guesses as to what it is.)

 

 

 

 

 

ix.

Clark Kent dies in a battle that was never yours, and somehow, you find yourself dragged into an alliance with Bruce Wayne (the  _ Batman,  _ Zeus help you). He’s sad, and surly, and does about as much talking around you as he does in his batsuit, so conversation is limited. But company is company, and Alfred is kind to you, and sometimes it’s enough to know that there’s someone in the world who maybe gives half a damn about where you are and the state of your well being.

So you pack a few bags from your Paris apartment and migrate to the gloomy city of Gotham and gladly throw yourself into the tasks set before you. It’s tiring, and more hands-on than the work you’re used to at the museum, but you’re less often left alone with your thoughts, and for that you’re grateful.

(You still think of  _ him _ every day. It would feel like betrayal if you didn’t.)

Bruce manages to round up people like you - different people, extraordinary people. Protectors. The world perceives itself as very much black and white; heroes and villains; gods and monsters. 

You manage to earn yourselves a nickname -

 

__          --and wouldn’t Steve have loved that, the Justice League, you think to yourself sadly - _ _

 

And somehow, all of a sudden, you are a team.

Arthur Curry calls himself the Aquaman, and looks more like a god than any real one you’ve ever laid eyes on. (To be fair, there haven’t been many.) He is covered in tattoos and lean muscle, and his dark eyes observe much, but he seldom speaks. He does not scare you (not many things do), but you remain wary around him when Bruce first brings him to you. You go and observe him one day as he swims in the deep end of the pool in Wayne Manor and think -

___ _

__          --diving off of the white cliff into the clear blue water, your arms pulling against the currents, and pulling a man out of the wreckage of a flying machine - _ _

 

You shake your head once to clear it, and leave the Aquaman to his thoughts. He watches you leave, but says nothing.

You meet the Cyborg in one of Bruce’s workshops, officially. It’s a small, quiet space in the mansion, which is a large, unbearably quiet space, and you go there often to polish your armor or tinker with the machines when you run out of tasks to do. Victor Stone walks in quietly for a man who is mostly machine, but you still notice him. He nods when you make eye contact, sitting quietly and opening up a panel on his arm to play with some of the wiring.

You’ve seen him before, the past few days, but kept to yourself; out of caution or introvertedness or just being too tired to make a proper introduction. This is the first time you’ve really gotten a proper look at him, so you study him out of the corner of your eye while you polish your shield; smooth dark skin scarred where flesh meets metal on his face, one contemplative, almost soulful human eye. His mechanized hands are nimble, and looking at him, you realize for the first time how  _ young  _ he is. How vulnerable he must be. You watch him struggle to connect a small wire, hear a small curse uttered from his mouth as sparks flit into the air.

“I can help you, if you’d like,” you hear yourself say. He looks up, startled. “It is not an insult to your skill,” you explain, “but it is difficult enough working on something detailed with two hands, let alone one.” You deliberately avoid the word  _ machine,  _ and he seems to notice, because he smiles gratefully.

“Only if it’s not an inconvenience to you,” he replies, and you shake your head, making your way over to inspect the wiring. 

“My name is Diana Prince,” you say by way of introduction. “We haven’t properly met.”

“Victor Stone,” he replies, “but Vic is fine. It’s shorter.” You scrutinize a small red wire, then pick up a pair of electrical pliers no bigger than your thumb and get to work. He gives you simple directions, but other than that you work in companionable silence. It’s… nice. Nicer than working with Bruce, who gives off a constant gloomy vibe even when he’s not wearing the bat armor, and definitely better than being around Arthur Curry, who you are half-certain can read your mind.

Finally, he breaks the silence. “Thank you.” You shrug. 

“It is no problem. Work is always easier with the assistance of another.”

Vic shakes his head. “No, not that.” The corner of his mouth curls downward. “You’re, like, the first person in a long time to treat me like a normal person. Even though I’m obviously not,” he adds with a dry laugh, using his free hand to gesture to the mechanical workings of his torso, sleek steel poking through his shirt. You meet his eyes pensively.

“We are not so different, you and I,” you tell him, then turn back to your work.

“Where I come from,” you continue, “I lived on an island of immortal warrior women. Amazons. But even there, I was treated like I was made of glass, because I was different. I was a child of Zeus, destined to be a weapon; a god-killer.” You give a sort of half-laugh. “I was an outcast in a world of gods, and a goddess in the world of men. No one treated me like I was normal.” 

_ I wish we had more time. I love you. _

“Until someone did,” you whisper to yourself. It’s silent for a beat, then you connect the correct wire and Vic’s arm makes a funny beeping noise. It breaks through the serious air that has come over the room, and you laugh quietly. Vic smiles, and stands, shutting the panel. He stretches his arms above his head.

“I’ll leave you to your weaponry,” he says, and walks towards the door. “I hope I’ll see you around, Diana.”

You decide right then that Victor Stone might just grow on you.

 

 

 

 

 

x.

Your favorite, though, ends up being Barry Allen.

He’s young and wary eyed and a little reckless, limbs gangly and body still not used to the speed at which it can move. He arrives at the manor and immediately begins to explore, shifting from room to room like a mirage, eyes combing walls and searching open spaces, a backpack slung over one shoulder. At first, he annoys you, simply because you cannot control where he goes, but you take a deep breath and allow the feeling to pass.  _ Patience, Diana; he is a child. _

(They all are, compared to you. You ignore this.)

So, when you come up to your quarters one evening, your bare feet making no sounds on the stairs, and you find him peering curiously at the framed photo on your nightstand, you do not reprimand him. The familiar annoyance does not bubble up in your chest, but rather a new sensation; an almost maternal sense of patience. You think of Hippolyta’s gentle smile and Antiope’s calm, wry humor and you relax and step into the room. 

He starts when he notices you, looking ashamed, but you speak before he can spirit away. “It is natural to be curious, you know. Some would even call it a virtue.” 

You watch his shoulders relax, his hands sliding once again from their tense poise at his waist to being tucked in the pockets of his hoodie. “Oh. My, uh,” he laughs sheepishly, “my mom always said it would get me into trouble someday.” 

You smile indulgently. “Well, what with our abilities, trouble often finds us, doesn’t it?” He shrugs, his eyes drifting towards the photos. You gesture. “You are curious, I can tell. What do you want to know?”

He steps closer. “When was this taken? Where?” He’s looking at your favorite one; the group shot from Veld, the first afternoon you were on the front.

You walk forward to stand beside him. “That photograph was taken in Veld, Germany, in the year 1918.” You smile softly at the memory. “It was a long time ago.”

Barry stares at you, incredulous. “No way. That would make you at least a hundred years old.”

You raise an eyebrow at him. “The powers you possess, and the things you have seen, and my age is the most difficult thing for you to comprehend?” That quiets him effectively, and he goes back to studying the photo.

“Who’s the man on your right?” Barry asks, after a beat of silence and a moment you’ve gotten lost in your thoughts. You stir, and see him pointing at Steve. Your heart clenches just a little. You swear a breeze stirs.

“His name was Steve Trevor,” you say quietly. “He landed on my island. He brought me to this world, to the war.” You look away. “He sacrificed himself for the sake of the war’s end. He died long before his time.” 

Barry studies you for a moment. “You loved him,” he almost whispers, and it’s not a question.

You give a sad smile. “Yes,” you answer. “Yes, I loved him very much.” You realize this is the first time you’ve said these things out loud in a long time. It’s like releasing a breath you didn’t know you were holding.

You look down and realize your hands are shaking, just a little; a small tremor, somehow enough to feel like it could bring down buildings. Barry rises to his feet, his eyes cautious but filled with empathy and his movements, for once, hesitant, and then he steps forward and wraps his arms around you. 

“I’ve lost people too,” he whispers, his chin resting on your shoulder. “It never goes away, does it? The pain?”

You shake your head no, and wrap your arms around him and hold on tight.

If anyone asks you, you have no preference among the people you work with. But Barry Allen is your favorite.

 

 

 

 

 

xi.

Day by day, you hurl yourself into the fray. You don your armor, do your research, do battle again and again and again. You would have given Etta a heart attack, had she seen you now, but there is no one in this age to care what you do to yourself, and so you allow yourself to become more reckless. You wield your weapons as weapons, you throw yourself in front of civilians, you stand back to back with your new teammates and take risks and don’t worry about the consequences they’ll bring to you. 

(There are five of you now, just like there were then, and oh, if that isn’t a special kind of pain.)

 

 

 

 

 

xii.

Barry finds you on the terrace of your old apartment in Paris. It’s where you come to be alone with your thoughts, but you aren’t angry when he joins you, gazing out over the rooftops of a city that now feels foreign to you. Everywhere feels a little foreign these days, as if you have stopped belonging in this world. As if your lease is up, and you’re no longer needed.

The people of Earth do not celebrate heroes like they once did. Now they are spiteful, resentful of your power. You try to keep them safe, but they are bitter and angry. It saddens you, to know that these people you came to protect could be turning inwards to the darkness you work so hard to keep at bay. 

You have come to realize, though, that this is the way of the human world. That the darkness and light come in phases, like the tide coming in and out, and when the time is right a new hero will be there for them, to show them the way. You have reached the end of your reign, and there’s a peace inside you akin to relief. 

Your skin remains smooth, and your eyes retain their youth, and you stand up straight and to most who pass appear as young as the day you stepped onto the boat and left Themyscira. But every time you are hit you get up a little slower, and sometimes at the end of the day your hands won’t stop shaking, and all you can feel is tired.

Barry, who is older now than you will ever appear to be, takes your hands and grips them hard enough for you to feel it. Barry, who you love like he is your son, who is the only good thing you have in this world now, who  _ understands.  _ He leans his forehead against your temple and whispers, “It’s okay to be tired. It’s okay to want to let go.”

 

 

 

 

 

xiii.

You let go. 

You feel everything fall away; the years that lie on your shoulders like chains, the weight of the sword you once called God Killer. Loss. Battle scars that should have remained on your skin, but faded to the inside.

You see Steve in the airplane once more, and you finally understand why he smiles.

_ He’s waiting for you, darling. _

 

 

 

 

 

xiv.

You open your eyes on a boat in the middle of a sparkling cerulean sea, feeling eons younger. You wear no armor; you are clad in a simple white dress. Your hair is tied in a ponytail. A breeze blows across your face, and you smile.

And then you gasp, because before you --  _ but it can’t be, it’s impossible --  _ is Themyscira.

It looks unchanged after centuries of your absence, craggy white cliffs and sloping green lawns, the cobblestone roads and beautiful buildings you explored as a child looking almost newer than when you saw them last. As you draw closer, the figures who walk the roads spot you and begin to wave, running down to the dock to meet you. 

You feel  _ free.  _

When you reach the dock, you don’t try to hold back the tears that begin to fall as you lay eyes upon the faces of your sisters you never thought you’d see again. Women who lost their lives that day in battle on the beach, women who left you before you were old enough to know them well. The bravest of the Amazons, your childhood heroes, embrace you like an equal. It’s enough to wash away centuries of fatigue. You swear you’re glowing with happiness. More and more women mill around on the dock, reaching forward to squeeze your forearms, cradle your face, calling words of welcome and appraisal.

A whisper runs through the crowd, and suddenly from the back bodies begin to part, stepping sideways to make way for an unseen figure. Cydippe lets go of your hands with a knowing smile, and steps aside to reveal Antiope, clad in a flowing white jumpsuit, smile lines cradling her shining eyes. She is radiant.

“Hello, Diana,” she whispers, reaching out with a hand to cradle your stunned face. “It’s been so long, my dear.”

You let out a shocked laugh of relief and wrap your arms around her, squeezing tight. “I missed you so much,” you choke out, the words suddenly becoming difficult around the lump in your throat. “I’m so sorry,” you whisper. 

She pulls back and holds you at arm’s length, her eyes soft and knowing. “You have no reason to be sorry, Diana,” she tells you. “You did what was right. What you had to do.” She gazes up towards the clay cliffs. “And anyway, I have already made peace with him, too.”

Your mouth drops open. “You don’t mean--”

She smiles broadly, then leans in and presses a kiss to your forehead. “Go to him, Diana. You’ve both waited long enough.”

You nod breathlessly, squeezing both of her hands in yours one last time before the crowd parts as you practically sprint off the dock and up the path to the main citadel.

You find Steve at the top of the island, sitting in the grass on the cliff where you stood when his plane first crashed in the water. He is cross-legged, arms wrapped loosely around his knees, facing the ocean. A breeze blows his bangs gently across his forehead, and they’re as gorgeous as you remember; gold, bronzy blond, a thousand shades of luster in the brilliant sun. He wears a worn cotton shirt and loose pants; his eyes are closed. He looks calm, peaceful...patient.

He is, you realize, waiting. He’s waiting, and the knowledge of it, the truth before you, breaks your heart and your silence.

“Steve,” you call breathlessly (and oh, how much kinder his name is now than that night on the tarmac.) He starts, turning to look, and the moment his eyes open the ocean pales in comparison. 

His mouth gapes slightly open. He blinks, stands slowly, brushes the hair away from his eyes. 

“Diana?” Steve asks, disbelieving, barely a whisper, and to hear his voice at last - it knocks whatever wind you had left right out of you. He steps forward, and you nod.

That’s all it takes, and you don’t know who moves first but suddenly you’re meeting in the middle, stumbling towards each other, bodies colliding as you reach out to caress his face, run a hand through his hair, bump your foreheads together, and he isn’t just a daydream anymore, he’s  _ real  _ and  _ solid  _ and  _ there.  _ Steve laughs a little, wetly, the happy tears that glitter on his cheeks matching yours. “Hi there.” 

You run a hand down his jaw, drinking in the sight of him. “You waited,” you murmur, still in awe. “You waited for me.” 

Steve’s blue eyes soften. “‘Course I did,” he replies. “Always.”

Your breath hitches, and that’s all it takes for you to nudge his nose aside and press your lips together, soft and slow and sweet, taking your time after so much waiting. He tastes like  _ home,  _ like golden honey and salt water and the metallic tang of swords clashing; like Themyscira, but also like something else, golden liquor and gunsmoke and vanilla ice cream. He is this home and he is somewhere else, he is your world and he is his, he is  _ everything,  _ and you have to stop kissing him because you’re smiling so big you don’t think you’ll ever stop. 

He laughs again when he sees your smile, hands steady on your waist like the night he taught you to dance. “What is it?” he asks, and you beam.

“You, Steve Trevor,” you tell him, pressing kisses to his nose, his cheeks, his forehead, everywhere you can reach. “You, you, you, you, you. Always.”

_ Always,  _ you say, and the world lets out a breath, and keeps turning, on, and on, and on, and two little people revel in a big love, unnoticing.

 

 

 

 

 

_ the world _

_ gives you _

_ so much pain _

_ and here you are _

_ making gold out of it. _

"there is nothing purer than that"  _-rupi kaur_

__  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


**Author's Note:**

> I hope that ending was satisfactory for everyone! It's so much smoother and better-sounding in my head than it ever is written down, so my apologies.
> 
> The quote Diana uses is from Interstellar. I just liked the quote. 
> 
> She'll obviously never read this, but many thanks to Rupi Kaur for sharing her lovely poems with the world so I can use them.
> 
> Please leave kudos if you liked it or comments if you (for some godforsaken reason) LOVED it! I always appreciate feedback!!
> 
> find me on tumblr as always: stevetrevvors


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